


No Rest for the Wicked

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Illnesses, M/M, Sick Character, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian gets the 'flu, and tries to carry on as if nothing is wrong, nobody sick here, <i>thank you very much.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dichotomous_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/gifts).



> For my dear Deeds, from Tama Abby, to say I hope you get well soon, and to send along huge hugs in the interim. Thanks for telling me to post this too, you lovely thing.

The fever makes Dorian’s pulse thrum in his temples, and his head aches.  But there are things to be done, adventures to be had and wars to be won or lost, possibly on the strength of a single mage.  So he swallows past the rasp and burn in his throat and attempts to swing his legs out of bed.  This, however, doesn’t go quite as well as he’d envisioned - instead of his feet landing confidently on the floor and the rest of his body following, the whole of his body ends up on the floor with an almighty thump.  He groans, barely feeling the sweat-soaked linen on his skin.  At least the floor is cool, he thinks with some degree of pleasure.  Almost as soon as the thought arrives in his head he is wracked with shivers, and he moans again, hitching his aching legs under him in an attempt to conserve his body warmth, what little of it remains to him.

 

It is here that Bull finds him - shivering, half naked on the floor, hair unkempt and burning to the touch.  “Dorian,” Bull mutters, half in concern and half in irritation; he’d told him to stay in bed, get some rest, but knew that Dorian wouldn’t.  Dorian never rests, not even when he’s too ill to stand.  Cole had been the one to find him yesterday, chin in his hand, nodding and sniffling over an old tome in the library, bleary eyes red-rimmed from sheer exhaustion.  They had appeared at the tavern door, Cole clearly concerned, struggling under Dorian’s weight.  “He’s sick, the Iron Bull,” the boy had told him, “tight throat, on fire and under ice, head full of stones.  Can you help him?”

“Don’t need help,” Dorian had rasped, “Need accurate… translation.  Helisma… it’s the runes…” But whatever else he had meant to say was lost under a fit of coughing that seemed to go on for far too long.  Cole had looked up in confusion as Bull had sighed.  “He can’t keep going like this, can he, the Iron Bull?”

“No.  He can’t,”  Bull muttered.  “Thanks for bringin’ him, kid.”  And with that, he had picked Dorian’s weakly protesting form up, out from under the boy’s arm.  “I’ll take it from here.”

 

And here they are.  Dorian, barely aware of Bull’s physical presence, yet somehow hyper-aware of him here, in the room, taking up space.  If he had the energy, if he only had the strength, he would make Bull leave the room, make him gone.  Bull, knowing that that is what Dorian wants, but the exact opposite of what he needs.  He shakes himself of his sentiment, and quickly strips the sodden sheets from the bed, throwing them into a corner.  After rummaging for a bit in a chest near the door, he finds another set, soft, almost worn through, and lays the dry fabric down.  He finds a plush wolfskin in the chest as well, and a blanket that looks like it’s made of fine wool.  Working quickly, he folds the blanket into a pillow, and removes the damp one from the bed, casting it into the corner with the soiled sheets.  Normally, even Dorian’s sweat smells good to Bull - cedar and vetiver, ash and smoke.  Today, all he smells is sickness, and Bull cannot help the way his brow creases, knowing as he does how much it costs Dorian to be seen in such a weakened state.

 

He swiftly circles the bed to where Dorian lies, still shuddering on the floor.  “Hey, Dorian,” he murmurs, “Gonna put you back in bed.”

“No, no, Bull, I’m fine,” Dorian rasps, but it is too late - Bull has moved quickly, scooped Dorian up and deposited him back on top of the dry sheet, quickly covers him in furs again.  And oh, Dorian cannot help the sigh of bliss as the cool sheets touch his feverish skin, the weight of fur and wool somehow comforting - but not moreso than the tenderness exhibited in the touch of Bull’s hand on his forehead, the rueful smile he can hear in the others voice when he mutters, “Rest, okay?  Just rest, kadan.  I got you.  I got you.”


End file.
